


Conscious

by Dionee



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fantasizing, M/M, Masturbation, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:48:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29725785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dionee/pseuds/Dionee
Summary: There are certain methods that can help you fall asleep faster and make your rest dreamless.
Relationships: Armin Arlert/Annie Leonhart, Armin Arlert/Connie Springer, Armin Arlert/Eren Yeager, Armin Arlert/Hitch Dreyse, Armin Arlert/Jean Kirstein, Mikasa Ackerman/Armin Arlert
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33





	Conscious

He didn’t pick the book resting on the bedside table; after reading papers all day his eyes hurt. Anyway, the gears of his brain wouldn’t stop regardless of how mentally —or physically— tired he was, and that was getting a toll on him. He was drained, but his nights hadn’t been easy lately. Not being able to sleep for two hours in a row had spoiled his mood. He felt bitter, and it was curious how he could taste that bitterness in his mouth. He clicked his tongue and frowned.  
  
Coming back to his habits wasn’t something he could avoid for long, he acknowledged that; but he wanted some kind of instant relief. Alcohol was out of the question, but he still needed something to numb him to the point where he couldn’t move his limbs. Knock out so hard that all dreams or nightmares, especially the latter, would disappear. He could allow himself one more time. If he had luck he could sleep until dawn.  
  
Lavender soap and warm water —he’d heard it put babies to sleep quickly— after working-out should help, but he was just beginning to feel anxious as he watched the golden light of the setting sun pass through the thin white curtains that covered his windows. He wasn’t looking forward to another long night. He wasn't going to prepare dinner. He didn't plan to do anything but lie on the couch, feet up on the armrest, after playing some music on his new device. And let himself go.  
  
He closed his eyes as the melody started and exhaled slowly.  
  
Minutes passed until the tempo changed from andante to adagio, he opened his eyes again. The room was now dimly lit, but if he had to describe the atmosphere, he would say it was comfortable. Something felt natural in the way the walls wouldn't be so bright at this hour, nor did his skin seem too white. How the shadows covered the back of the furniture as if hiding something there. An ephemeral twilight —it was special because it didn't last forever.  
  
Breathe in. Stand.  
  
His sheets were cold. It was the middle of summer, but his bedroom remained fresh. Oh, he liked the summer showers, but thunderstorms in late September were so much better. He couldn't have anything he wanted, could he? He was sure the skies would be clear this evening. Still, the melodic strings filling the space would cover up the sounds he couldn't suppress; it was embarrassing enough to hear himself whimpering pathetically like a wounded little animal, even if there was no witness nearby.  
  
He should think, he was good at it. Put his brain to work —switched in another mode— and imagine something, or someone, because his cock remained soft under his touch. Well-proportioned, round breasts, perhaps. A dick bigger than his own, maybe. Nobody's in particular, but an attractive individual’s. Soft skin, surely; whoever it belonged to.  
  
Each passing second it was growing darker.  
  
Even if he could barely see the couch across the room, he closed his eyes again. A body came to his mind.  
  
Annie was beautiful, gorgeous, and glorious in her absolute absoluteness. How many times did he want to reach out and caress her cheek? Run his fingers through her hair? Annie was a sight to behold, he knew that much, but when he had the chance —plenty of times— he never dared to look at her unabashedly, he never ogled her. Yet, her figure was burned into his memories. He could only imagine, assume. But right now, he had decapitated her —a black spot covering her face and extended downward until it reached her waist. Oh, her hips… but her thighs. He supposed that her thighs were strong, they could squeeze—  
  
_There_.  
  
He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his linen pants and pulled them down, underwear and all, freeing the damn thing. A single finger traced the length. But what if...?  
  
A hand encircled his cock. He refused to believe it was his, because no —it was bigger, rougher, and at the same time so skilled. His eyelids needed to be shut for this task, however. A haze decomposed into colors invaded his brain until it formed an image, vivid and real. The stench of alcohol from that time —a year ago?— made him wrinkle his nose as if he were back then and there. He didn't drink, but Jean, though evidently tipsy, managed to handle the deck of cards with the dexterity of a professional. Connie called him a magician, and he had to agree as he gaped in admiration.  
  
The hand stopped the slow pumping to travel to his chest. Two fingers unbuttoned his shirt to proceed to pinch his nipple.  
  
"Ah!"  
  
But it wasn't long enough until the hand was replaced by something wet and hot. Soft as nothing in the world. Rosie, pretty, puffy lips engulfed his cock while black strands covered the face of someone he _didn't_ want to see. He was coming undone. He knew it couldn’t be. He had to catch his breath.  
  
He urged his real left hand to remain still, then he let out the darkest chuckle in his life. Why? Maybe the reason behind this was that he had finally lost his mind, and he would be lying if he said that he didn't know it would eventually happen. His right hand squeezed his balls with all his might. That was the least he could do to punish himself, wasn't it? The chuckle was replaced by a pained groan. He gritted his teeth; it was fine. It was for the best, so maybe he could finally stop bringing his dear Mikasa —bringing all these people who loved him to his shit. He was horribly, horribly twisted.  
  
However, the thing throbbed, as if it were trying to make him remember its existence —as if he could forget. Maybe it was better punishment to pull his pants up and spend the next twelve hours tossing and turning in bed. And he really thought about it until he decided against his better judgment, dropping his hand back down onto his greedy crotch. It was both amazing and disturbing how his cock hardened even more after his... reverie —when he should’ve felt uneasy by those intrusive, dangerous thoughts—, all while screaming in his blood that it wasn't enough.  
  
He opened his eyes to face the fact that he was about to fully accept his madness, and more importantly, embrace it. But it didn't matter as the sun was gone and only darkness was left to observe.  
  
He already had some thighs, a hand, and a mouth, but he consciously brought a pair of strong arms —the ones that had held, carried, and saved him so frequently that his pride must have been wounded by now. It was impossible because it was him of all people, and his kindness and loyalty only warmed his heart.  
  
Connie's arms hugged him, led him to a chest that should’ve been equally firm and caring, but breasts met him instead.  
  
Big.  
  
He had to remember that embarrassing situation while he was literally panting? It made him miss the rain a little bit less, on the other hand. It was raining heavy enough that day to leave them soaking wet on their short way out. Inside, Hitch looked down at her translucent shirt and said, "Oh, my! That's why I must wear my coat no matter how hot it gets." She grabbed her breasts with both hands and guffawed at his beet-red face and wide eyes.  
  
It hadn't affected him the way it _should_ have back then, but now he could tell otherwise. A thumb spread a thick bed of precum over the pink head of his cock as his other hand wrapped tighter around it. This was what he was afraid of —his pitiful moans escaped his mouth and echoed in the room.  
  
The breasts bounced deliciously above him, but he preferred them moving underneath.  
  
He grabbed the pillow and folded it. _Gross_ , a voice muttered. He was aware of it. The new fast pacing of the background music would never have been more appropriate than in this very moment. He rolled over and dug himself into the wet realm of the fractured monster that he’d just created, whose imaginary cunt wasn't, indeed, wet —the dry friction made the sensitive skin ache as a result. Well deserved.  
  
But there was this wild, instinctive part in the back of his brain telling him that his cock wasn't sufficiently constricted. It didn’t matter as long as he had those phantom touches —the hands that gave him goosebumps and brushed his back, that scratched his shoulder blades, that stroked his thighs; the fingers that tangled his hair; the faint sensation of lips crashing against his, which then went down to his neck, and then teeth biting, and then there would be no trace or mark on his skin. Not now, not tomorrow. His shirt clung to his sweaty back. He took it off and set it aside.  
  
He froze for a moment.

Green eyes glowed amidst the black ink surrounding him. They peeled his skin, exposing his raw flesh. No. He didn't have to. Bringing back the dead was beyond what his sinful self was allowed to do. But he recognized that raging gaze in his own eyes when he looked —sometimes, just sometimes— at his reflection in the mirror.  
  
He didn't feel like laughing again. The jokes his treacherous mind composed weren't funny, never were.  
  
And when he shut his eyes for the umpteenth time they didn't disappear. He had to replace them —black, light-brown, ice blue, hazel changed and looked back at him from below every time he went down. He was getting dizzy.  
  
He wasn't feeling good, but the combination of mild pain and the pleasure coming in ripples made his body squirm. He was approaching his orgasm. He wanted to shout something instead of letting out those lamentable moans. Shout a name.  
  
But he hadn't named his monster yet.  
  
"Ah, ah, A- Armin!"  
  
The name slipped out his mouth smoothly. Obviously it did. Deep down, his consciousness always knew 'Armin' was a perfect name for a monster.  
  
The violins played the music to the rhythm of his hips, not the other way around. He was the conductor of this piece. And he growled low in his throat, and gasped, and hissed, and finally he let out a high-pitched scream in his last thrust before spilling out. Knees and arms shaking —he couldn't keep up. The musicians had to continue without him.  
  
He only moved to pull his pants up, and to throw the pillow on the floor, already planning to set it on fire as soon as he woke up the next morning. His back was facing the ceiling. He wouldn't dare move any further and break the spell. The music would stop on its own. He didn't want to cover his back, which was getting cold after being damp. He was spent. His body would maintain the necessary functions to keep him alive while his mental process shut down for a few hours, or more if he was positive enough.  
  
Even if he performed poorly, his creativity clearly deserved a standing ovation. Sometimes he wondered if he had an audience. If thousands of ghosts followed him and were able to see him —people he had killed and people who had died believing in him. Or his family. Were they judging him? He didn’t and couldn’t know.

His mind was floating on a sea of chemicals that slowed down the gears. He couldn’t even guarantee this would always work, for now it did. The night was still early, but his worries and guilt vanished. He sighed.

Armin didn't have enough energy to care.

**Author's Note:**

> And hopefully he slept soundly until morning.
> 
> (Honestly, I don’t know where the part of Armin shouting his own name by fucking a pillow came from. Just forget that, please. I never thought it was a good idea. I'm hiding under the desk. You may laugh.)


End file.
